


Not The Banter He Bargained For

by EffingEden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comment Fic, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffingEden/pseuds/EffingEden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He often found himself wishing his companions would talk to him, too - but he didn't expect what Cole had to say</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drabblewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=drabblewriter), [ivotedforsaxon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ivotedforsaxon), [izzidore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzidore/gifts), [classics_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=classics_lover).



> Written for the Dragon Age Kink Meme prompt;
> 
> Cole makes your party's pain loud and clear with some pretty emotional results. Give me your Inquisitor's past and present pain, through Cole's eyes.
> 
> It can be as simple as a few lines or a full fic. Make OP's heart break.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> becky no  
> you need to play Inquisition first  
> stahp

“Your sadness has an edge to it,” Cole said, sudden and harsh, causing several nearby nugs to start and scatter. 

“Oh, not again,” Dorian complained under his breath. Who would it be this time? The Inquisitor turns his head a little, to check they were simply conversing, before refocusing on the morbid device before him, gazing through the poor Tranquil’s skull in search of more mysterious shards. 

“It cuts deeper than your daggers can reach and it tastes like a scream on the back of your tongue. A vile gladness, a dark joy that squirms in your head. A demon of your own making.”

Mahanon flinched, the words sending icewater cascading over him, and it was a struggle to keep silent. He was no longer looking for any artifacts. Cole had never turned his talents onto him before. He’d even felt slightly snubbed by it - but this? He didn’t want this.

“You were desperately afraid to return to your clan, and now that they are dead, no one will force you, no one will ask why you do not speak of them. You are safe, but you dream of them more, memories like ghosts that haunt your bones.”

“That’s private,” he heard himself say, a faint tremor as he tried to grasp something like control over his own thoughts.

“You’ve barely slept this week, and when you do you dream of flesh-hungers and fear, hands rough from bow and staff, betrayal, how can they say they love you yet hurt you so much? hot, hard, why do they do it, why won’t they stop - don’t fuss so, da’len, you want this-”

“ _Halam sahlin_ ,” Mahanon snarled, finally pulling away from the Ocularum to face his companions, all three staring at him with varying amounts of horror, save Cole who was still frowning and distant-eyed. “Cole, no more.”

He blinked and his gaze was steady as it met the Inquisitor’s, then slid to the mess of scars over his cheeks. “They said you were beautiful, so you cut and cut until you thought the visits would stop. They didn’t. Even now with them all dead at a shem’s hand, they go on, in your dreams... I do not know how to heal it,” he admitted, distressed, frustrated. “Can we kill them twice? Like Corypheus?”

Mahanon felt the stagnant memories wane at Cole’s bloodthirst, and laughed. The sound bleak and harrowed and he shook his head. “One abyssal horror at a time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> da’len - small one, child  
> Halam sahlin - end this
> 
> Other fills can be found here -
> 
> http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10859.html?thread=45822827#t45822827


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise chapter two?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Drabblewriter's commentfic prompt, 
> 
> any, any, long dark night of the soul ([here](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/349351.html?thread=61464231#t61464231))

He stared into the fire, sprawled by the hearth to bask in the heat, goblet still half full but forgot, the aches of the day’s slog through the mire leaving him exhausted, but still he battled against sleep. The keep was quiet at this hour, an unnatural still. He missed the constant sounds of the forest, leaves sighing against the wind, birds praising sun and stars while halla murmured sweetly... 

Here? There was just the fire, crackling calmly. It was difficult to relax, to let his guard down - so while he didn’t expect it, he was not startled to have company. 

Whisper-soft footsteps approached, the sound too subtle for anyone wearing shoes, but too relaxed to be someone use to wearing them. Solas, then. The mage hesitated a moment, and Mahanon can almost see the perplexed frown, though he didn’t turn from the fire. The pad of feet came closer, and then the sofa sighed as the other elf took a seat.

“ _An’eth’ara_ ,” Mahanon said in greeting. Solas hmned softly in response, something about the soft sound all too much like a frown. The heavy weight of Solas’ attention finally pulled his gaze to the man. He blinked, surprised to see Solas wasn’t alone - Cole was there too, in a new set of clothes and his hair limp and wet under his hat. “Did you find the baths or did Sera get you with the bucket on the door trick?” 

“We bathed. It is too loud, too busy, in the day time, but when the dreamers dream and the stone children snore, no one is there. Warm, wet, floating without falling. It reminded me of the Fade and stayed in too long.” He rubbed his fingertips with the pad of his thumb, his expression bemused and abashed - they had wrinkled from the long soak he must have enjoyed.

“I’m glad you had fun,” the Inquisitor said with a soft smile, and was quietly grateful for Solas. He’d not wanted to mention it, but Cole had started to smell like wet nug. Talking of wet nug... He sat up a little and drew his legs towards him. “Come sit by the fire and take off your hat so your hair can dry. I’d hate for you to get ill.”

The youth cocked his head in uncertainty and said haltingly, “I don’t think I can get ill,” he protested, but obeyed, kneeling before the hearth and taking his hat off his head. When he moved to a more comfortable position, his legs came close to touching Mahanon’s, would have done had he not twitched away. He turned the reflex into a smoother movement, dragging his tired body forwards to throw a few more logs onto the fire. 

Had his companions been anything but a fade-walker and a spirit made flesh, they might not have noticed - but luck wasn’t on his side. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” Cole said, pure regret and misery. “I wanted to make it stop but I made the pieces push deeper - I tried to pull but it is filled with barbs and it tangles up in love and home. I could make you forget so I could try again, get it right, but Solas says this hurting is a kind of healing too?”

Mahanon sighed and threw an exhausted glare at Solas, wondering how much Cole had told him, and how much he had guessed. That frown was still there, but his voice was gentle when he spoke. “I would be willing to lend my services to you in this matter. The Inquisition needs you strong, sharp, fresh. If you cannot rest, you put our whole cause at risk. I would not see the world ended because one man was afraid of his dreams.”

The Herald turned it over him his mind, and had to admit Solas was right on that. “Scars hurt when you move too fast when they are still new,” he told Cole. “It doesn’t mean they have healed wrong, you just have to learn how to move with more care. Th... Their death was... something I wished for, for years. And it came true, because of something I did. I wanted them dead, and I killed them while everyone thought I trying to save them... what if I knew that would happen? What if my hate for my own clan was... was so much...”

It was too hard to go on. He wasn’t sure what he had been thinking when he issued the order. He knew Shems, he knew they would leap at any excuse to massacre his people. He knew it. Yet he’d not acted on that.

But Cole shook his head so very slightly. “Love bleeds into hate, hate bleeds into love. One cannot be without the other, not with them. Twisted like a tree choked by briars. The tighter you try to grasp the deeper the thorns go - _it’s all right_ , you do not have to doubt yourself. It was out of your control and you thought it was the right thing to do.” He moved slowly, rolling onto his knees, hand reaching, slow but unhesitating. Mahanon didn’t move, and Cole’s water-wrinkled fingertips touched his self-inflicted scars, turning thoughts from the death of his clan back to the betrayal they forced upon him. “It was out of your control,” Cole repeated, his words softer but firmer, and his eyes saw everything, “and you thought it was the right thing to do.”

At those words, the knot that was in his heart eased, just a little. Just enough. He let out a breath and tried (and failed) to smile. “‘Ma serannas, elgar’falon.”

Solas gently closed a hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder and squeezed slightly, offering comfort without forcing too much on him. “Come, and I shall chase the Dread Wolf your dreams.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An’eth’ara - informal welcome.  
> ‘Ma serannas - my thanks  
> elgar - spirit  
> falon - friend, guide


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Prompt by ivotedforsaxon on commentfic; Any, any, snowball fight.](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/206003.html?thread=43913907#t43913907)

“-so it’s either expand the training ground, or more space dedicated to our medical. In my opinion - ” The words had long melted into a dull blur of sound. Not through any fault of Cullen’s, but the grey silks he wore were _not_ suited for the snow that was drifting from the sky in exuberant flurries. He thought longingly of the being inside, toasting something on the fire, drinking something hot and rich - Josie had been swooning over a blend of hot chocolate and Antivan brandy...

“-sure you’ll agree.” Cullen said, with an arch of his eyebrow.

A wave of panic and embarrassment crested, and Mahanon stumbled. “Uh,” What had he been saying? “Yes, of course. I trust your judgment in this, Cullen.” 

The Commander's expression changed to one of amused exasperation. “So, you trust my advice on nugs being the more battle-fit mounts,” he repeated, a smirk tugging the edge of his mouth.

“... Well, they do have a certain... majestic... quality. Commander Cullen-” he started, meaning to apologise for his lack of focus, when the softest of _crunch_ es alerted him. He glanced behind him, but saw nothing. That changed a heartbeat later when Sera materialised the moment she attacked. 

“Gotcha, Inqy!” she crowed. The blonde rogue snatched the collar of his grey shirt and tugged, garotting him unintentionally. The intention was so much worse. Down the gap between flesh and fabric, Sera dropped a thick icicle and danced back out of reach.

The scream that came from Mahanon could be heard all over the keep, drawing attention to the Inquisitor’s mad flailing. After what was far, far too long for the Inquisitor (and far, far too short for the cacking Sera) he managed to hike his shirt up and grab the icicle where it had wedged. He pulled it free and grasped it as he would a dagger, looking flushed and furious and thoroughly ruffled, his green eyes pure poison as they fixed on his archer.

“Oh, shit,” Sera gasped, eyes widening as her survival instinct flicked on.

“ _Emma shem'nan_ ,” he snarled, and moved with a speed the eye could not follow. She jumped, flipping in the air as she did to evade any true enemy, throwing snowballs at him as she did. With deft dexterity, the Dalish elf shattered the snowballs before they impacted, but not all of them. Several sailed past him and struck Cullen in the face, leaving his cursing as crude as any soldier under him could.

While distracted with her snow balls, Sera attempted to flee, sprinting across icy cobbles. She didn’t anticipate the icicle thrown low, skimming across the ground and being in the place Sera was trying to step. She gave a high pitched yowl as her feet slid out from under her and she fell in a heap. 

Mahanon was on her in an instant laughing like a mad Magister and scooping handfuls of snow onto her face as she thrashed and cursed. The Inquisitor thought the quarrel was just between him and his fellow Elf and was surprised when Sera’s allies defended her with a volley - proving she had some capabilities of planning ahead. Mahanon hunched over sera, and as they were bombarded they panted and shared wide grins, Sera’s laughter a bubbling bright joy. After a few moments, the attack eased - not for lack of will but because others in the crowd had come to the Inquisitor’s defense.

It was a massive battle, and it only came to an end when Cassandra’s command to halt echoed harshly off the high stone walls. Cullen guiltilly dropped a snowball as Cassandra gathered steam, lecturing them on structure or integrity or just not throwing snow.

Before the Seeker’s gaze could land on them and cause an apoplexy, Sera tugged Mahanon to her escape route. “That, they gotta put that one in the history books,” she said, her joy still bubbling from her. “C’mon. Let’s get warm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emma shem'nan - My revenge is swift


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [For Marlex's prompt on commentfic; any, any, They were so covered in mud, they were all one color and he/she couldn't tell them apart.](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/514113.html?thread=74932033#t74932033)

He had not thought it was possible to _hate_ a place, especially one naturally made, but oh, Fallow Mire proved him wrong. The place stank of rot, each inhale catching in his throat, making him gag. The sodden expanse went on for miles, wretched and miserable. Mosquitoes twisted around him in the air, four times larger than any he’d ever encountered before and left them all bitten and itching. Vivienne cleared them with a few liberal fire blasts, but there was always more - just like the drowned corpses that decided to shamble from the depths. And that said nothing about the slick, stinking mud that sopped into boots and ruined anything it touched.

If they had a goal to work towards, then it would be _tolerable_. But no. The one, singular reason they were slogging through the marsh was to pick enough blood lotus. He’d tried to delegate the task to some of Cullen’s men, but they returned with only a few samples. Nothing like the quantity they needed. So here was the Chosen One, Andraste’s Herald, the grand Inquisitor himself, commander of Thedas’ greatest unified forces and the world’s one hope of survival.

Knee deep in sludge. 

Pulling weeds.

He was certain Vivienne would never forgive him for making her come along, yet she had. She wasn’t helping him collect the plants, but stood on the (mostly) mud-free walkway with Iron Bull and Varric. They were also not helping, beyond calling out “advice” and pointing out any of the plants he had missed.

Bastards.

At least they taunted the dead that he disturbed, but other than that it was all, “Hey Boss, you shouldn’t stoop like that, you’ll get a bad back. Bend with the knee!” “My dear, you really should resist these urges to return to your roots, such menial labour is below you - but if you must do it, do it with some grace, and wipe that smear of mud off your cheek. No, your other cheek- well, at least they match now,” and other _helpful_ tips.

It was probably mid afternoon when he saw it. He took it for a broken branch jutting out of one stagnant pool and almost ignored it, but something made him look again. It was too straight for a branch - and the colour was not quite right - it was too ruddy. Rusty. Yes, yes it was rust. He stepped closer to it - a sword, a two hander by the length of the blade. He should leave it, it was far too damaged to be any use to anyone... but he was bored of pulling up lotus. 

Gingerly he edged towards it, grimacing as the water came thigh high. He tried not to think of leeches, and reached out to touch the ruined blade-

and regretted every life choice he had made that had led him to this moment.

The moment his fingers touched metal, the ground under his feet surged, the world becoming a confusion of sound and motion and putrid water closing over his head, a huge monstrosity thrashing itself free of mud with a terrible scream. He flailed ungainly, trying to find footing, trying to get his head out of the water but the _thing_ was always there, pushing him down into the soft, cold mud, and terror filled him for a moment as he wondered if he would join the hundreds who had perished here. He saw flashes of brilliant light as magic tore through the air, the disjointed battlecry of Bull, and steady, but nothing drew the _thing_ from him. And then another surge and there was _air_. He gasped and choked, trying to see anything, trying to tell up from down, but mud was heavy on his eyelids and the _thing_ had wenched him from the water, a slick muddied mass pressing his body - no, not pressing him. It was under him, he was laid across its shoulders and it was struggling out of the water, ignoring the attack his companions mounted against it.

It heaved them up onto the walkway and Mahanon was finally able to stop clutching the thing enough to wipe his eyes - in time to see Bull lift his huge hammer. “Bull!” the Herald yelped, jerking backwards and sliding off the mire-beast’s back with a slurping squelch. The thing didn’t react as the hammer came down, though the sound of bones breaking was clear. When it didn’t turn and attack Bull, the rain of arrows and spells tapered off, and Bull cocked his head in bemusement. It - four legs, barrel body, long neck and heavy tapered head, a horse? - was ignoring everyone and everything except for the bundle of blood lotus the Herald had spent all day gathering. 

“Boss,” Bull said, his voice tense with concern. “You okay? Sorry I almost... yeah. You just looked like more mud...”

“Wh... what just... How did it...” Not the most coherent thing he had ever said. He struggled to his feet, a task made all the more trying by the thick coating of mud that covered every inch of him. He looked closer at the horse, blinking hard. The rusting two-hander speared the mount’s head, the hilt wedged under its jaw, the blade protruding out of its _forehead_ like a morbid unicorn. He could even see the pale gleam of bone at its snout, and the stench of rotting meat was overwhelming. It was quite obviously dead. Yet it still managed to chomp merrily on the pile of lotus. “... Fuck it. Fuck the mire. This is too fucking weird.” 

It was Varric who laughed first, followed by Bull. The Inquisitor shook his head, though he grinned, and Vivienne rolled her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [For classics_lover's prompt on commentfic; Any, any/any, "I'm not a psychic; I don't know what you want unless you tell me."](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/397766.html?thread=66401222#t66401222)

He found himself in Solas’ study after the War Meeting, the walls bearing the mural the mage was working on lending much needed lift to the ancient walls. The older elf was reading a heavy tome, so focused on the yellowed pages he didn’t even look up as Mahanon came in. The murmur of the courtiers in the main hall drifted in - why were they so fascinated by who he might be tupping? - and the more muted discussions in the upper levels mingled together into a senseless but satisfying background thrum that was so much like wind through autumn leaves, a beck over stone (the promise-plea of the fade-mark as he tore through the fabric of reality to touch the dream world beyond) It would have been perfect, had Lelianna’s crows not taken roost in the rafters high above, their cries abrasive and discordant.

Russet brows tugged together as he stared up into the darkness, then asked a question that was burning bright in his mind. “Don’t the crows shit on you?”

Solas’ reply was a long moment in coming, as if he’d expected a question, but not _that_ one. “It is a fear I live with, every moment of every day,” came the sardonic reply. “You notice, I never look upwards and have my mouth open at the same time.”

The sound of utter disgust that tore from the Herald was so violent several scholars and Dorian peered down at them from the level above. Solas chuckled richly. “Have no fear, the spymaster’s messengers are well trained.” 

Even with that reassurance, Mahanon edged to the shelter of the overhang, and fell back into silence, green eyes narrowed to a distrustful scowl. Minutes passed, and Solas turned a page, still focused on his studies. The Herald took a turn around the room, gaze moving over the walls, trying to find meaning in the artistry. He knew it was meant to depict _his_ tale, but it was difficult to see it. It was just so surreal. He glanced to Solas again, a request twisting on his tongue but his jaw staying stubbornly shut. Would Solas agree to it? Would he judge, would he mock? no, surely not. But the fear kept him mute until his own doubt stole the last of his courage, and he turned towards the archway, to retreat to his rooms.

Solas spoke then, his voice as firm as it was gentle. “I might be a skilled mage, but I cannot read what troubles you. Speak, and I will listen.” The book before him thumped softly as it was closed, and his full attention came to rest on Mahanon. 

The younger elf almost baulked, and he couldn’t hold the steady, probing gaze for longer than a moment. His eyes dropped, but he wandered closer to the table. “Were you telling Sera the truth?” his tone filled with caution and curiosity. 

“About...?”

Of course it wouldn’t be so easy. He let out a huff of breath and said, “Magic. About having magic, even if it’s not all fireballs. You said... urgh, _fenedhis_ , forgive me, I waste your time-”

“Inquisitor,” Solas interrupted. “I do not see satisfying curiosity as a waste of time.” He paused then, to be sure Mahanon would stay to hear him out. “I did not lie to Sera, all the Elvhen have potential for magics. We have a particular and powerful affinity with it. _But_ I hesitate to suggest we try to discover what, if any, talents you possess - there is no knowing how the mark would react.” He sounded truly regretful.

“Ah,” was all the Inquisitor could say. He flexed his marked hand, the fade-scar prickling his flesh. Disappointment was a terrible ache - which was so foolish. He’d lived his whole life without magic, how was this a disappointment? “I was hoping - I had wanted to know how to guide my dreams, so I need not always be bothering you.”

“That?” Solas said with surprise. “Yes, that I can teach you. It takes no magic to be the master of your own dreams, simply the willpower to enforce it. Shall we begin now?” 

Mahanon’s gaze jerked up, startled. “ _Ara ‘nehn_ , yes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fenedhis - contraction of “inevitable wolf sorrow”, a curse  
> Ara ‘nehn - my joy


End file.
